A Flicker and a Shadow
by Tanuki-dono
Summary: A suffocating light struggles till its last breath. [Seishirou, Subaru, Fuuma, Lady Sumeragi]
1. unus

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The leaves crunched under his feet as he walked steadily toward the house cloaked in an unsettling quiet. It had been two days since the incident, two days since Kakyou had prostrated himself on the ground before him, begging the chance to dream no more, as his most recent dream had apparently not come true.

Two days, since the eradication of the kekkai at Rainbow Bridge.

And no sign of either casualty.

He had gone through the rubble of the bridge, but there was no lingering presence of Angel or Seal. All Kakyou could see concerning the combatants after that was a great, black space, like a bubble of oil, he had said. No past, no future.

However, he, the Kamui of the Angels, had a suspicion.

_Crunch. Crunch._

As he neared, a strange phenomenon was occurring. All signs of autumn began to fade, giving way to greenish leaves, which grew increasingly healthier as he approached. The brown brush gave way completely to lush life as he stepped into a ghostly gorgeous garden. A faint breeze shook the leaves and rustled the petals of the thriving camellias adorning the bushes, and the great, blooming sakura trees cast long shadows on the ground.

The light of the afternoon was dying away in the distance. But it was eternal spring in this garden. The power humming within the cores of the plants seemed to create an eerie glow despite the lack of actual light in the pervading shadows. There was life in this place, but it wasn't warm. Even the strangely calm, stone-lined pond in the middle of the garden seemed like ice. But no frost would kill this place.

…not a place kept alive by the generational magic of the Sakurazuka legacy.

He smiled as he walked up to the back sliding door of the house. It was impolite to enter a home from the rear; perhaps, but propriety wasn't his strong point anyway.

With a forceful push, he entered. The door rattled as it slid open, granting him access to the home.

The initial room he encountered was cold. Not so much in the way that a cold day felt. No, it wasn't in terms of temperature. It was clammy in much the same way a dead body was, just after it had been killed, even when all the warmth had yet to flee. Undeniably frigid, chilling in a way only death could be.

His footsteps were nonexistent as he slipped into the house unnoticed. It was dark inside. He didn't turn on any lights. He did not want to startle any wild beasts, after all. It was an old piece of advice to be weary of injured animals, even ones you knew well. His boots clicked slightly against the hardwood floor and he frowned at the startled noise that echoed in response from the deepest of alcoves. Animals had a keen sense of danger too it seemed.

He ventured forward, passing dark, unlit rooms until he finally came to the one from where a barely perceptible scratching sound was issuing. This room was lined with bars. This is where young assassins are raised, he thought to himself darkly. A fitting prison – a dismal place.

The hairs at the base of his neck prickled and he scowled, raising his hand to brush over them in confusion. He turned around, eyes lingering on the door from whence he had entered, still partly visible from his position deep in the hallway. He wasn't deep enough yet to no longer view his means of escape, not that he would need one. There was nothing threatening there. Rolling his eyes at his own uneasiness, he turned his attention back to the room lined with bars.

With a rush, a roar of sound assaulted his ears. It was illusory, not like the sounds heard within the bounds of reality, but rather a blast from within one's head, such as a popping noise in the ear when descending from too great a height at too fast a rate of speed. This time he half turned, not quite revealing his attention to whatever drifted so near with watchful eyes. The rush of sound faded abruptly to be replaced with a glittery noise, rather a cross between something made by a small bell or xylophone. It was off-key.

Next, the tinkling was joined by a flutter of noise, perhaps wind billowing against long kimono sleeves; perhaps, the wings of birds in flight. His peripheral vision was good, so he was able to make out the form of something slinking in the darkness down the hallway. He thinned his lips and tried to still the gooseflesh rising on his forearms. It wasn't for fear, the reactions his body was having. When faced with an apparition, no one could deny that the symptoms were only natural.

Again, the unusual glow was making its presence known. It wasn't at all unlike the nonexistent but undeniably real light that floated about the garden outside. Smirking, he turned to face the visitor. It fled, a firefly caught out of season. Before it dissipated, he made out the delicate form of a young sprite. It shone in bright shades of varying whites, the glow extending from its form to touch all the air that surrounded it. The eyes had been vibrant – green in a way brighter than leaves or grass. They reminded him of expensively cut emerald, the kind that had been in that jewelry shop the other day, before he had destroyed the store along with an important kekkai. The rose-petal lips had been a delicate shade of pink, like the stained sakura blossoms the Sakurazukamori tended.

Fly away little ghost, he murmured, a cruel smile twitching the corner of his lips.

Labeling the presence as unthreatening, he turned back to the prison room, placing one hand on the door and making ready to slide it open. The movement that sounded from within the room proved that a presence waited inside. The door was unnecessarily loud as he slid it open – it was probably one of those doors that hadn't been used nearly enough to slide smoothly. As soon as the dank, musty air from this new room hit him, he knew.

The room was dark, but he could just barely make out the form of a body scuttling across the floor like some deranged, overgrown beetle. The smell was almost intolerable, even for him, a Kamui who had murdered countless human beings. He heard the scratching of nails against wooden floor and grinned.

"Hello, Sakurazukamori," he greeted smoothly, the tone of his voice reverberating cruelly in a room that was too silent.

A few seconds passed, and the figure on the ground paused before sitting upright. The movements were jerky, like someone using their body for the first time after a traumatic traffic accident.

"Good afternoon," the figure replied, throat crackling as if parched from thirst.

"How are you?" Kamui inquired politely.

"Fine."

One could hear the dilapidated smile in that voice.

"This is a very nice house. The garden is lovely," Kamui continued, cautiously inching his finger towards the light switch.

A moment's silence; then, a murmured, "Yes."

"Have you been sleeping well?"

No answer.

Kamui took a step to the side, and heard a quick sliding movement in response to his action. The Sakurazukamori had moved further away from him, he figured. With a lazy flick, he flipped the switch and was rewarded with a buzzing, inconsistent light overhead. It flickered a few times before settling on a dim state. It was good enough for him to see the inside of the room. He first noticed the space around his own feet – it was splashed with old, dried blood. Quite a large amount, by the looks of things, but then, the room did smell like decaying death.

He let his eyes travel the trail of blood leisurely. It led to the Sakurazukamori, past the Sakurazukamori. Just to the side of the hunched over man's crumpled figure was sprawled a vaguely familiar coat. It had once been white, had once belonged to a Dragon of Heaven. The back of it sported a large hole, around which the thickest of blood was gathered and crusted.

Blinking his eyes shrewdly, Kamui returned his attention to the Sakurazukamori, observing with indifference. The man was unclean – his hair was sticking out in all directions, and he was covered in specks of blood. He was curled about himself, long limbs folded protectively in a way that reminded Kamui of a lost child. So unlike his normal, nicely groomed persona.

The Sakurazukamori raised his face then, glass eye glinting in the dim light. A dead, false eye, it was…but the other eye looked just as dead. There were scratches adorning his entire face – most of them centered around his left eye and cheekbone. Glancing at his hands, one could see broken fingernails that were sullied with blood. Those hands were shaking, fingers shuddering with individual motion.

Kamui took a step further into the room, watching as the Sakurazukamori became more spooked by his presence, though the reaction was veiled impressively by a thin smile and the squaring of broad shoulders. But Kamui could see through anyone as easily as looking through a clear window on a sunny morning. Experimentally, he stooped to pick up the red-speckled coat. He turned it over, fingering the few spots of soft fabric between all the dried blood. The Sakurazukamori, meanwhile, was tense, muscles coiled as he pondered pouncing on his enemy to reclaim the coat. Kamui, as if sensing the irritation in the other, let it fall to the floor carelessly.

It fluttered as it fell, the long belt flapping like the wings of an innocent butterfly. He suspected that whenever the Sakurazukamori caught butterflies, he made a habit of rubbing his finger pads over the wings – diminishing its beauty, removing its chance of escape, and setting the stage for its quick death.  
The Sakurazukamori strained an arm out to grip the edge of the coat, and he dragged it towards himself, burying his face in its folds and inhaling the sweet scent of blood. He smirked, the action a motion that had been practiced for so long it required no effort. He scooted towards his futon then, dismissing Kamui's presence as an unimportant nuisance. The mask of serenity and politeness had not lasted long. And even during its brilliant execution, it had flickered as steadily as the overhanging light.

Kamui smiled.

Without speaking, he sauntered forward, boots clicking loudly against the hardwood floor. He came to a halt on the opposite side of the futon and stared down curiously. The Sakurazukamori was currently leaning over the covering, smoothing out whatever wrinkles had accumulated there.

Two days, since the eradication of the kekkai at Rainbow Bridge, he mused.

Two fighters; two supposed casualties.

Where there was one, there was the other.

The Sakurazukamori moved slightly, and Kamui was able to observe the other body nestled comfortably within the blankets. The Sakurazukamori flicked his eyes around nervously before throwing his arms out and leaning possessively over the one sleeping within the futon.

Kamui chuckled, nudging the side of the body with his foot. The body against his boot was stiff. His eyes traveled down the covered form until he found the feet, which were peeking just barely from underneath the luxurious covers. Very interesting indeed. But one alteration of one stitch in the fabric would not change the entire pattern—fate would remain on its steady course, directed by an unseen compass.

"It's a beautiful thing – when wishes come true," he murmured, gazing at the sunken cheeks of what could have one been called a beautiful man. Now, it was merely a body – parasites and natural decomposers working in such a way that the skin and organs were soon to be completely exhausted. Already, two days' time had caused the stench of rot and decay to stain the air in the stuffy room.

The Sakurazukamori swiveled his eye to gaze at him bitterly, his lips pulling back from his teeth just slightly in a display of basic human aggression.

"What do you think of him now?" Kamui called, his voice bouncing emptily off the walls. "You can no longer enjoy his beauty, so what purpose is there in holing yourself up with his rotting corpse?"

The Sakurazukamori's eye was more intense and gold-colored than he had ever seen it.

"Surely...you didn't _love_ him?" Kamui chuckled, delighting in how the whole left side of the man's face twitched at the question. "Of course you didn't," he continued slyly, staring at the sunken spaces of the former Seal's eye sockets. "But I never had you pegged as a..._necrophiliac_."

The effect was immediate. Whatever false humanity had been painted on that face before melted away like hot wax. A ferocious snarl broke the short silence and teeth were bared in the manner of a rabid dog. Regression was an ugly thing, Kamui thought.

He danced away just as the other man had managed to stagger to his feet. The Sakurazukamori took a swing like him – it was rather graceless and very basic. With the Sumeragi, it seemed, had gone the Sakurazukamori's good sense. His thoughts were distracted as the man growled hotly and came at him again.

But Kamui just kept flitting out of reach. He stepped out of the room and hovered in the hallway, eyes daring the Sakurazukamori to come closer.

The Sakurazukamori stared at him maliciously.

"Are you really willing to come after me?" Kamui taunted. "If so, you'll have to leave _him_."

The Sakurazukamori froze, his eye moving rapidly to stare back at the precious bundle that lay in the futon.

Then, the fire died.

And Kamui was forgotten once more in favor of something infinitely more remarkable.

The Sakurazukamori's form crumpled once more, instantly making him seem shorter and smaller. He crossed the room with an almost drunken sway to his movements. He knelt by the futon and climbed inside, arms wrapping possessively around the body that rested there.

Seized by a pinch of distant pity, Kamui felt indistinctly like Monou Fuuma again. But the sensation passed quickly, and he made to shut the door behind him. Problematically, the door refused to shut completely. Kamui thought it was a regretful thing that it would not close – the odor would soon contaminate the entire house. On retrospect, however, given that this was a house belonging to a family of assassins, perhaps it didn't matter at all.

He walked down the dark hallway until he reached its end, and the backdoor leading to the garden was visible once more. He rested a hand against the handle but froze when the familiar sound of bells ringing echoed all around him. A breeze touched his cheek and he turned to glance down the hall at the opening to the room he had just exited.

The boy-sprite was back, doll-like hands resting against the doorframe as he peeked sadly inside at the room's inhabitant. Those evergreen eyes were glowing with anguish. His pale pink lips were moving silently, while his white shikufu was a stark contrast to the surrounding blackness.

Kamui tilted his head and smirked.

Where there was one, there was the other.

Sliding the door open, he stepped out. He never looked back.

End Part 1.

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Disclaimer: CLAMP owns.

This is for FinMefiant. Happy birthday!


	2. duo

Awash in confusion, he drew the body closer, feeling it stiffness – its coldness. By rule, lies were a dangerous thing to believe in, and the notion had been fulfilled in the end.

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**A Flicker and a Shadow**

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When he arrived home the first night, the body carefully cradled in his arms, he had not bothered to turn on the heater despite the mansion's frigid atmosphere. He had simply removed his shoes by the door and arranged them accordingly. Next, he had unlaced _his_ boots and set them on the hardwood beside his own. They were still – had always been – a smaller size. Afterward, he shifted the weight in his arms before retiring to a room he had visited rarely in the past years – a room barred by iron. Since it had no windows and no sunlight, he decided that it would be a welcome home from now on.

Within an hour, he had dragged a fresh futon into the room as well as the old candles that had been holed up in the west closet for years. He had tried the overhead light, but the brightness irritated his eyes – hence, the decision for candlelight. He tried not to ponder on what kinds of truths the darkness hid and the light revealed. It didn't relate to him – it wasn't as if he was dodging any type of reality – or fantasy for that matter. After settling _him_ inside the futon and stretching out _his_ limbs in a comfortable position, he pulled the covers up.

He himself reeked of blood. While it was a natural odor for him, given the years of his profession, he decided that a bath was in order. He walked quietly to the door, slid it open with some difficulty, and stepped out. Immediately, he felt something cold grip his chest. Shakily, he glanced back into the room. But _he_ had not moved – _he_ wasn't leaving. Nodding to himself, he continued on – only completely coming back to himself once he had entered the bathroom. Automatically, he turned the water of the furo on full-blast and removed his blood-sullied clothes. Distantly, he noted how messy his last kill had been. He was usually a relatively clean killer, as far as assassination went. But this time, red had soaked his arms and chest, even spilled down to his pants. It was crusted on his hands and neck and face.

Naked, he stepped into the furo, jumping at the water's temperature. He was positive that he had turned the facet on hot. Checking and realizing that he had, he belatedly realized that bills had gone unpaid. Staring morbidly at his feet, which were covered by water that felt more like ice, he scowled. Streams of red were beginning to dilute into what little water rested in the bottom. And although the blood was not his own, he felt strangely like he was losing something crucial. Shivering at the sensation, he stepped out and turned the facet off. An array of gooseflesh had spread over his skin, pinpricks of raised follicles that seemed almost painful in their attention.

He forwent toweling himself dry and slid his sullied business suit on once more. He walked over and splashed freezing water over his face before patting it dry. The white towel was now a decidedly pinkish hue. He threw it carelessly to the floor and stepped on it on his way out. He slipped into his house shoes – the giraffe-motif ones purchased years ago, lovingly picked out by a pair of vibrant twin siblings. Walking gracefully to the hallway, he stared at the backdoor to the house. It was open, the curtains adorning nearby windows fluttering in the breeze that crept inside. Strange. He remembered closing it after entering. Scowling, he padded softly across the distance and shut it harshly.

_…irou._

He spun around at the soft, lilting whisper – eyes sweeping every corner of the room for the source. Suppressing an uncertain moan, he shuffled back toward the prison room – where he would live from now on. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he _knew_ that voice. A minute later, he returned _home_. Nothing had changed in the minutes he had left it. The candles were still burning – though the wax was dripping freely now – and _he_ was still…_lying_ there.

_Seishirou._

His chest jolted once more, and before he could investigate the voice that spoke his name, he was distracted by the unexplainable tipping over of the candle nearest the futon. The flames spread easily to the fresh cloth, and he stood dumbfounded for the briefest moment before summoning the will to act. His feet carried him swiftly forward and his knees hit the ground in a distantly painful manner. Hands beating at the flames, he managed to keep a cry of rage at bay for a few minutes. But when the fire licked at _his_ face, he failed. His voice was rawer than he ever remembered it being. Working steadfastly, he beat the flames over and over again with his bloodstained black business jacket. When it was all over, he was breathing heavily, and _he_ had somehow ended up in his arms. _He_ looked peaceful, unaware that _he_ had been in any immediate danger. It was some time before he realized that his fingers were caressing _his_ soft black hair between his fingers.

Ten minutes later found a half-burnt futon discarded messily at the bottom of the west closet, and a larger fresh one replaced it in the room lined by bars. He was smoothing the covers around a cold body, considerately making the bedding as comfortable as possible. It was much harder to arrange _him_ in a comfortable position – _his_ limbs were becoming unnaturally stiff, but _he_ had always been tense when he was touching _him_ – never really relaxed. He had doused the candles and thrown them in the garbage. While they provided a more comfortable alternative to artificial light, their unreliability had unnerved him in a bad way.

He sat still for most of the night, content to stay upright in the darkness – seeing nothing and hearing nothing except his own slightly speedy breathing. Soon, his hands were not content to remain idle, and he found them wanting to wander over to _him_ – to touch _him_. They skimmed over the still-soft skin and glided down to ghost over firm lips. He parted them with his thumb.

After a while, he realized that he had unknowingly crawled beneath the covers, and he was automatically removing _his_ white coat. It made sense to do this, for wearing a coat to bed was an odd and uncomfortable thing to do. He threw the trench coat a good distance away, listening with grim satisfaction as it landed heavily on the floor. Then, he put his arms around the cold body and tucked his head against a chest that was no longer warm – no longer beating – but sticky and crusty. There was a space where his ear sunk inside.

He slept for a while.

He woke afterward and had difficulty moving his face, which had dried to parts of _his_ chest. When he worked free, he sat up. Eyes adjusting to blackness, he traced the outline of _his_ white face. He wondered if _he_ would like breakfast – pancakes like he had made the morning after the one night _he_ had stayed over…long ago. He wandered into the kitchen, and upon discovering there was no pancake mix, rammed his fist through one of the cabinets. It was terribly annoying.

The second day, he picked up the habit of scratching his face. It started out lightly, the soft scraping of nails against skin as if relieving the itch of the blood that was dried on his face. On a whim, he flipped the switch for the overhead light, and for the first time, he really _looked_ at the still form lying in his futon. _He_ was still exquisite, but it wasn't very enjoyable that _he_ wouldn't wake. It was boring. He slid his fingers through the silky hair, attempting to coax the soul out of sleep. When that didn't work, he tugged, and when that failed, he shook. It was only afterward that he began to scrape the skin from his own face.

Awkwardly, the memories came to him. Memories of odd things like cookies and ice cream and windows…and the color green enveloping everything. Then there was one of a knife and unreason and of blindness – this caused him to scratch more ferociously near his left eye. He found himself wanting to give it away – the good eye, that is. His progress was hindered by blood and breaking fingernails. Infuriating, really.

He fell asleep again when he grew tired of straining his good eye looking at _him_. Another dream came. Another memory – an unpleasant one in which a dying girl told him of a nonexistent spell, uttering a loathsome lie and putting trust in his willingness to believe her. He had believed her – had trusted her spell. A fool's mistake. The next moment was a memory of persistent waiting and expectancy…and then of the burning in his throat that followed his unfulfilled agenda. Then green took the sky in a brilliant flash while the white clouds smiled sadly on the happy rain that leaked away into nothingness. But it was happy rain, and _his_ tears had been grateful ones. The dead girl had the last laugh – he could hear her taunting that he should have heeded her advice never to invoke _it_. She had intended to prove his humanity all along.

He awoke to soft crying, but he never got around to figuring out whom it was. In the end, the nonexistent, echoing sobs were written off as fanciful delusion. Unbeknownst to him, wide, transparent green eyes watched him from afar, afraid to enter and afraid to leave.

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After Kamui left, he felt broken – like someone had emptied out all of his insides and left him with only bones. He tightened his arms around the slight body and buried his face in soft hair.

_Dead?_

He shifted so that he could better cradle _his_ body. He shook _him_ gently, as one would wake a lover in the morning – halfway expecting eyes to fly open in surprise, rage, or perhaps…love…like at the end.

_Really dead?_

_Already?_

Not planned; not this way – it was all he could think. Tenderly, he ran a hand across _his_ delicate neck, pushing his fingers onto the place a pulse would normally be.

Then, he kissed unresponsive lips.

Bells rang faintly near the door, and he thought he heard crying again.

_Seishirou._

_" S u b a r u . . . "_

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Hours later, Seishirou resolutely whispered a promise against Subaru's ear and left the room. Minutes passed, and he returned, arms carrying a large black-bound book and five candles that had been retrieved from the trash.

At 3:13 A.M., Seishirou sold his soul.

End Part 2.

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Disclaimer: CLAMP owns.

Review Replies: To be posted on my livejournal.

One chapter left.


	3. tres

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**A Flicker and a Shadow**

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Lady Sumeragi wasn't one to hate. She had been angry countless times in her life, but she had only truly hated one person – the face of a grotesquely smiling man pinning her favorite child against his god-forsaken tree. Those kinds of smiles were of the eternally damned. Only a handful of individuals possessed such expressions. She had seen it five times, and to live a life such as hers and only see it five times was nothing short of lucky.

The first time she had seen it was as a girl. Her mother had brought home a grey-skinned child from one of the war-ravaged cities. Whether or not the boy was a distant relative, she did not know. For days, they had tended to the boy – his rotting skin filling the house with an acrid odor. She herself had been his regular nurse, shifting him in his bed every few hours, changing his bandages frequently, and feeding him reluctantly. She watched intently every time he gurgled, wondering if he was to die of choking. When he was well enough, he opened his eyes to reveal the strangest set of eyes she had every seen – they were wide, unseeing, and reminded her of starbursts or bombs. Years later, she would realize what cataracts were and the effects radiation wreaked upon a human body.

The point is that he had smiled at her like that. Smiling in ruins – like a rotting vegetable.

The second smile was of the same nature, but more vindictive. Six hours after the birth of Hokuto, she had glimpsed the vision of a tall, gangling man standing outside the hospital. Peering through the shades of the window, she had frowned. He was staring up intently, the falling rain fresh on his high cheekbones. She didn't see his eyes at first, as she was immediately drawn to that wide, poor play of a grin. The eyes hit her next – narrow and vivid green. When she blinked, he was gone. In the background, the mother screamed – Subaru had finally arrived.

The third came to her from a young girl in the marketplace. The girl was bizarre and beautiful, and something in Lady Sumeragi's heart tingled and warned her to keep away. The girl seemed to note the tension, but she just licked the icing from her fingers like a satisfied cat. An unidentifiable fear seized Lady Sumeragi then and she hurried home to check on the twins.

The fourth came from Subaru himself, as she came upon him standing alone in the garden in the dead of the night. He seemed tinier than he actually was, and sicker in the moonlight. He didn't seem to hear her when she called, so she rushed to him, yanking his hands from his sleeves to be sure that his gloves were firmly in place. In his right hand, he clutched a bottle of Hokuto's bath salts. She questioned him about it, and he merely smiled that same parody of life. After she took him back inside and tucked him safely under starched bed sheets, she disposed of the sakura-scented salts.

The fifth smile was the worst of them all. Shaded bangs hid maddeningly gold eyes from her sight, but that smile of his sent a jolt of fear to her heart. And beyond his smile, she saw the crux of her nightmares – her little green-eyed sprite with skin pure as the snow was dying before her eyes. With his arms spread out and eaten by bark, there was blood leaking down his chin and glossy tears in his eyes. The most painful realization was that he was not fighting. And in that single moment, she hated. Even later, when the phone call delivered the news of her granddaughter's death, she never hated as much as she did in that one moment.

These days, the smiles stayed in the back of her mind. There were more important things to dwell on. Matters of the clan had to be attended once more, since the thirteenth was busy in Tokyo. No word had come from the city in a long time, and it was hearsay that the earthquakes were growing ever-violent. She wondered when it would all be over, and after that, what the damages would entail. She focused her attention back to the five children before her.

All of them were unrefined children of modern times. Most of them reminded her of Hokuto – headstrong and rebellious. Yet, they lacked her charismatic tactics of evaporating her grandmother's ire. Perhaps most importantly, they lacked talent. The faint sparks of true onmyoudo spurted every now and then, but what little of it showed up was denied by poor personal discipline. Now, the children were eating rice, valiantly failing at remaining dignified. The youngest kept whining for her mother.

None of them would suffice as a true heir. It was difficult not to think of Subaru when she trained them. She couldn't help but trace their features, mentally comparing them to the astoundingly beautiful child she had taught years ago. Every time one of them managed to complete a spell, she thought of Subaru and how he had mastered them with relative ease.

The second youngest was an impish boy, and he stabbed at his rice impatiently, complaining that chopsticks were an ancient method of eating and he preferred western silverware.

"Stop it, child," she admonished gruffly, silently boiling at the ignorance of her new charges. "Do not stick your chopsticks into you food like that – especially not into your rice."

"Why?" he drawled tiredly.

"Only at funerals are chopsticks plunged into rice so openly, and that rice is placed on the altar."

"Ew," he whined. "I don't want this anymore." He passed his rice to the younger girl next to him, his chopsticks knocking clumsily against hers as he transferred the food.

Lady Sumeragi sighed. Uncivilized children.

"Only at funerals are things passed directly from chopstick to chopstick."

"What's that?" one of the older children asked.

"The bones of the cremated body," she murmured quietly, calling on old memories with a disturbing expression.

The children quieted at her words, and for the rest of the day, they stared at her in fear. Dimly, she wondered when the next funeral would take place, and whose cremation rites she would have to oversee. She often dreamt of _osenko_ these days – of lighting the incense sticks and watching them flicker in the overbearing darkness.

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The messenger came shortly after the arrival of the New Year. She was sitting demurely in her wheel chair, fanning herself as she glued her eyes on the fizzling crackle of the television. The hurried, almost clumsy way the man threw himself in the room reminded her of the time she had been informed about the pregnancy so long ago. He nearly tripped over his robes as he rushed to bow.

"Any news?" she asked slowly, keeping her emotions in check. The messenger shifted uncomfortably, picking tensely at his sleeves.

"You are needed in Tokyo, Sumeragi-sama," he murmured, regaining his composure immediately.

"Tokyo is still dangerous, even if it's all over now," she replied, not taking her eyes from the television.

"My lady, we won't be taking you into the heart of the city," he said more quietly, averting his eyes. "But you are needed."

"What is this about?" she said sharply, cutting to the case. "I may be a doddery old woman, Tanaka-san, but I have known you since you were a boy, and you were never one to keep things from me."

Tanaka's tongue darted out to lick at his lips and he replied, "They wouldn't let me see exactly what it was, Sumeragi-sama, and what conclusions they have drawn may be misguided."

The truth that Tanaka did not believe their conclusions hung in the air between them. He had always been a proud, upright boy, and whenever rumors arose about those he respected, he was the first to refute them. Lady Sumeragi saw identical children in her mind – two of them spinning in the finest of robes.

"Take me to Tokyo."

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The house was dark, hidden in old pines and dead cherries. A small group of white-robed onmyouji stood around the door, wringing their hands and rocking on their heels. Tanaka opened the car door and she was gently lowered to her wheel chair. The murmuring near the doors got louder, but when she glanced up to stare at them with hard eyes, they silenced immediately.

One brave man tried to stop her from entering. She grabbed his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Lady, you need not enter alone," he pleaded. "It's too danger – "

"I will see what has you all frightened for myself, thank you," she replied warningly.

Really, this whole ordeal was making her sick to her stomach. As she was wheeled through the doorway, the sea of white parting before here like waves, she noticed the shoes by the door. Two pairs. The larger pair was black and polished, but the second was smaller, a familiar picture of old unlaced boots. She gripped her armrests angrily.

"Sumeragi-sama?" Tanaka whispered questioningly.

"Let us continue," she rasped. She cast one glance at the crowd of onmyouji outside and pursed her lips.

Tanaka was interrupted by the brave man holding a candlestick.

"Let me guide you, please. None of the lights work," he said confidently. "Earthquakes did a number on the electricity."

"Whatever happened to flashlights?" Tanaka grumbled, falling into step behind the man as he pushed Lady Sumeragi forward.

The hallway echoed eerily as they walked, magnifying each creak of footsteps and wheels. It was too quiet. The man holding the candle trembled more and more, the closer to destination they grew. Finally, they arrived at a door.

The man fumbled for a moment, sliding it open as delicately as he could. Tanaka had instinctively moved in front of Lady Sumeragi, as if afraid some wild animal with razor teeth might lunge from the room. Nothing happened.

"Give me that," Lady Sumeragi whispered, reaching for the candle. The guide had lost his nerve, it seemed. She fumbled with her hold for a moment, and Tanaka began to push at her chair. The room glowed before her.

Two shadows lay in the center of the room. She had never wished for the use of her legs more.

"Forward," she gasped, clutching the light tightly.

Her heart came bubbling up in her throat as she peered past the shrouds of darkness. On the futon in the floor were two people wearing white yukata, limbs intertwined intimately. One slept peacefully, a soiled bandaged wrapped round his eyes like a blinder. The spot over his right eye was stained red. The other looked merely content, his arms wrapped lovingly around the first man, hands rhythmically combing through his hair. Every now and this, his fingers brushed over the dirty bandage, tenderness glowing brightly in his eyes.

Lady Sumeragi held the light forward, making out the outline of a thick book open on the floor as well as a scattering of burnt-out candles. A rusty dagger lay not too far from the futon. Her throat closed up, like the bad allergic reaction she had experienced once as a child. Snarling, her eyes flew hotly to the sleeping figure – to the blissful smile stretched out across his face.

Hate.

"Get out of here, Tanaka," she grit out.

He looked confused at her request.

"I'm going to fix this. Just get out."

Tanaka cast one last terrified glance at the face of the man caressing the sleeping one and fled, the swooshing of his robes audible as he ran down the hallway. She turned back to the pair before her, mouth drawn like a hungry wolf's.

In her mind's eye, she saw him – twisting her grandson's arm until is snapped like a tree limb – ripping the legs from her shikigami and mangling her own – plunging his hand through her granddaughter's chest. She opened her eyes and saw him before her, the rise and fall of his chest peaceful and undisturbed. The desire to still that breathing rose up in her heart like a clawing demon.

She eased out of her wheelchair, set the candle on the floor, and grabbed the hilt of the bloody dagger. Dragging her body closer, she leaned over that vile body – stared hard at his blinded face. Her eyes roamed over that disgusting smile before fastening on the center of his chest. She wanted to draw the name Sumeragi there. Revenge.

A hand fell over her own, light and cold but flawless. She gasped loudly and raised her eyes to meet the owner. One gold eye and one green eye looked at her blankly.

"What?" she coughed, trying to free her hand to no avail. "S-Subaru-san! Stop it!"

He shook his head slowly, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. She let her eyes settle on his flawless body with dread.

"You're dead," she whispered softly. "Let me free you from him."

She had to do it. Subaru had to understand.

"…_baa-chan, please." _

She flinched, falling back on her rear. His eyes were spilling tears, and they splashed on the face of the other man. The man roused sluggishly, feeling blindly for Subaru and grinning when he found him. He yanked Subaru closer to him and buried his face in his neck, inhaling deeply.

Subaru's eyes stared at her over his head, pleading silently.

Her heart throbbed in agony.

The Sakurazukamori murmured words that were too low to be heard properly before nibbling clumsily on the side of her Subaru's face and embracing him fully. At the beautiful expression on her grandson's face, she scrambled backwards, bumping the candle in the process. Afterward, she somehow managed to pull her tired body back into the wheelchair.

For a moment, she feared that her loudness would alert the Sakurazukamori to her presence, but he was too wrapped up in Subaru to notice anything else. Wheeling herself quickly to the door, she fought one last war inside her heart. Before she took her leave, she cast one last glance to Subaru, hoping to lock eyes with him for the last time.

He was smiling that same smile – eyes glued to the face of his lover.

She choked on her breath and slid the door shut behind her, the tinkling of bells ringing in her ears. The others asked her many things when she arrived outside – what had happened to the candle – why she carried a bloody dagger. She told them, simply, that she had finished an exorcism.

They gathered for a prayer that lasted no more than ten minutes before it happened. There was the unmistakable, strangled scream of a man – faint and only audible to her ears.

"What's going on?" she demanded, staring at the house and drawing everyone's eyes.

"What do you mean?" they asked her, searching for signs of a problem.

"I heard him."

And then the truth became clear. The first of the flames appeared in the hallway, and she remembered bumping the candle.

"Oh, no," she whispered. _What have I done?_

She watched in morbid fascination as the flames grew to a raging inferno, the wooden frame of the house falling down piece by piece. The house burned long into the afternoon, battling the sunset for vibrancy. Most of the other onmyouji left, casting the events of the day into the recesses of their minds. She stayed deep into the night, and after the last of the ashes had settled, she journeyed into the recesses of the estate – to the sight of the futon.

Tanaka had retrieved an urn for her earlier in the evening.

They would be buried together, she decided, as she gently swept the ashes inside.

END.

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Thank you for reading.


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